


Room Of Angel

by Mx_Dragon



Category: Silent Hill (Video Game Series)
Genre: Bad Ending, Other, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:13:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24028690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mx_Dragon/pseuds/Mx_Dragon
Summary: Eventually it all has to come to an end.(Originally published God-knows-when on Y!Gallery under the name screamer1234.)
Kudos: 11





	Room Of Angel

It was dark and warm and close there, in the unbeknownst back room; the air was like swaddling clothes, like suffocating wings. The walls were quiet for once. Their heaving and howlings had gone, departed in way for their God, and Henry was all alone with Him when the white-haired Walter stepped off the cross. The air was warm and still; the air was like swaddling clothes, like suffocating wings. His glossy black feathers did not stir.

“I love your fear, Henry,” Walter murmured. Henry could not tell which one. “And you wear it so well.”

The air was so heavy he did not even try to scream.

No one would ever know what happened there, what happened then. Even Henry never trusted himself to remember, and soon enough, the dead were dead and it was as if the memories themselves had forgotten. But Henry still sleeps uneasily, never at night, never without a weapon freezing in his hands, and always wakes cold with clammy skin and hot tears burning his sunken cheeks and a thick stickiness on his belly. He forgets why that is, too; all he can ever remember of his dreams are strange warm feathers, strange cold flesh, strange hot scars, closeness, grasping fingers, needy pain, the noise of an animal howling in Hell, fear heaving out his chest like thick oil, like blood so red it’s black. And being touched. And being rocked. Over, over, and over again.

 _The Descent of the Holy Mother is naught but the Descent of the Devil_ , some ghost had said. But then, Henry isn’t sure if he himself hadn’t glanced away one day out his strange distorting window and glanced back to find that his heart had stopped beating. He isn’t sure what the lines and loops scrawl-scarring his chest mean. Before he forgets how, he scratches them into the wall— _2…1…1…2…1!_ —and watches them like fairytale sparrows who might tell him something if he’s good.

But all that's left to speak to him is his own mind, already beginning to fall away like leaves. Like the layers of a paper-wasp nest. Like leaves.

He would come to wonder if the dead had been right, after all, and if a Mother lived in his walls. If She is still there. He would come to wonder if it is some part of Her he dreams of, a devil or a god; and what, after all, is the difference.

Henry sleeps and wakes and sleeps. Henry sleeps, the numbers squirm on his chest, and he forgets a little more.


End file.
